In such a voice a sorceress of old
might have crooned her incantations. Where did this girl get her soul,
her passion, he wondered; she who was only just beginning life.
He flung over an untidy pile of music, and dragged out the
magnificently devilish "_Enchantement_" of Massenet. "Try this," he
said abruptly. "It's _your_ kind of song."
For half-an-hour he exhorted, bullied and instructed, losing both his
composure and his temper. Arithelli lost neither. "I don't understand
music," she observed calmly. "But show me what to do and I'll do it.
Mine's a queer voice, isn't it? A regular croak."
"You've got a voice; yes, that's true, but you don't know how to
produce it, and you've no technique. You want plenty of scales."
"Wouldn't that take all the rough off, and make it just like anyone's
voice?"
Emile stared angrily at the exponent of such heresy, and was about to
annihilate her with sarcasm, when he suddenly changed his mind. After
all, she was right. It was what she called "the rough" that helped to
make her voice unlike the voices of most women.
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